I've just finished Paris or Die, and I utterly adored it! It's been a beautiful thing to read while stuck, literally, at home during the pandemic, so what better alternative to find myself traipsing through Paris.
Tuttle's memoir is an honest, joyful delight, with said honesty shining on every page. Jayne lays herself bare - her rude thoughts, her fiery passions, her pains, her delights - in such a way that the book feels very both very generous and also very precious.
Jaye writes about moving into a new city, with its particularities, oddities, differences and treasures with such zeal that it's infectious. And it's beautiful watching her navigating it and, through it, herself: when she discovers that to get the best bread at the local boulangerie she has to excise any politeness, we're there with her cheering her on as she unlocks of one of Paris' unwritten rules. Later, Jayne's told that the reason people know she's not French is because she speaks with a smile in her voice, and we rejoice at her eventual acceptance of this.
The writing is bubbly, sharp, funny and often very beautiful, which I think shows most prominently in how I felt about the people who share the pages with Jayne. I loved her friends and their generosities, I was thrilled and devastated throughout her relationship with Adrien, I admired and feared her teachers. Jayne brings you in close and invites you in: the death of her mother, the freezing European cold, trips away from Paris, theater school, the falling in love, the falling in friend-love, all of which moves you along steadily and easily, with nothing going on too long, no sequence becoming hammy, and no point being ground into dust.
Jayne clearly adores language, and communicates everything clearly while also making the sentences fizz and pop. She also delights in how language can transform and highlight in translation - we learn that moth in French translates literally as night butterfly, for example. But, much like her teachers at Jacques Lecoq school, where she was required to, amongst other things, become a bushfire, Jayne also understands the power of a gesture, an action. Jayne's study and understanding of how the body works, and how it like language can be transformed in translation, means that her descriptions throughout the book are immediate, gripping and visceral. Thus when Jayne kisses her lover's cheek and feels a thousand tiny shocks of electricity, we feel that wholly, without it ever coming across as corny. I wondered if this understanding of physicality is what lent to me feeling so present while reading.
Towards the end of the novel, Jayne's best friend Kiki gets a job being a personal chef and assistant to a famous photographer named Al, which gets Jayne invited on a holiday with them. One night, Al asks Jayne to read some of her writing to her. Al is silent, possibly asleep, through most of of Jayne's works, and it's only when she reads something raw, a piece called I'm Sorry, We Still Have Time, a piece about her mother that Jayne feels is a betrayal in its attempt to capture any kind of experience, that Al says 'That's where it is, sweetie. That place.'
The place Al saw is what we as readers are lucky enough to get in this memoir: somewhere raw, unashamed, beautiful and funny.